


winter moon

by Rae_Gar_Targaryen91



Category: Prospect (2018)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Choking, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, Moon cheese, Oral Sex, Romance, Smut, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24972703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rae_Gar_Targaryen91/pseuds/Rae_Gar_Targaryen91
Summary: You always thought Ezra was the poetic one in your relationship. It turns out he isn’t the only one.
Relationships: Ezra (Prospect 2018)/Reader, Ezra (Prospect 2018)/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, look! It’s another lyrical/faux-poetic vignette story! Is this becoming my cliche? Is saying it’s cliche, cliche? Either way, maybe I’m a cliche. But you can tell me. Please be honest about whether you liked this because I am so worried that I don’t have a good grasp on Ezra’s voice.  
> Also, the second poem really IS my own. So, if you liked it and then suddenly develop villainous urges to go with your questionable taste, just don’t steal it.  
> This is a fem!reader pairing, hopefully this is vague enough that you can imagine yourself. At one point, baby hairs are mentioned. If I’m not doing this right, send me feedback so I can get better!

You adored nights like this one, even if they did take place on _this_ planet. This planet, a godforsaken orb of humidity and shifty miners and bounty hunters. What did it say about Ezra that you would follow him to a place like this? And stay long enough to set up something adjacent to a home there with him? What did it say about you?

You supposed Ezra had the ability to bring this out of you-- a kind of recklessness that flies in the face of years’ worth of rationality you had once prided yourself on. One look into his ochre eyes, glinting mischievously with the devils and damsels of his past lives, and you were lost. Sunk deep into the black, endless tarpits that constituted his merciless gaze.

And if you thought his eyes were quick to draw you in, his silver tongue did the rest.

On nights like this, where the evening air cooled the terrain, simultaneously leaving it in a humid dampness, you find yourself in your favorite position: Ezra, reclining on the lumpy monstrosity he has the audacity to call a “couch,” while you curl across his lap, reading aloud to him at the end of a long day.

_“The moon is the mother of pathos and pity._

_When, at the wearier end of November,_

_Her old light moves along the branches,_

_Feebly, slowly, depending upon them;_

_When the body of Jesus hangs in a pallor,_

_Humanly near, and the figure of Mary,_

_Touched on by hoar-frost, shrinks in a shelter_

_Made by the leaves, that have rotted and fallen;_

_“When over the houses, a golden illusion_

_Brings back an earlier season of quiet_

_And quieting dreams in the sleepers in darkness—_

_The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.”_

As you finished the poem, you heard Ezra let out a sigh that you could’ve sworn was weary, rather than content. His hand ceased its back-and-forth journey of skimming up and down your arm, a road it has travelled many times before, ultimately coming to rest at your shoulder. 

“Ez?” You tilted your face to glance up at him, meeting his hooded, pitch eyes. He quirked an eyebrow at you, looking down his strong, hawkish nose at you, letting out the rest of the breath he was holding.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you jested, bumping his abdomen lightly with your elbow, “Am I boring you?”

“My venerable treasure, you know full well that you are the furthest thing I associate with tedium. Your voice is the song of the meadowlark, the wind through the trees. The respite at the end of a haul. The--” 

“Yes, yes, I know all _that_ ,” you swat at his arm playfully. “Why the-- “ you mock his sigh exaggeratedly, “the deflation?”

Ezra huffs again. And you huff back, if for no other reason than to annoy him and point out the sheer ludicrousness of his reaction. 

“My darling, my lunar goddess, the very center of my orbit, you have impeccable taste in general, so I would be hesitant to critique that which my own tastes are bereft of understanding, but your chosen stanzas of late--” 

“In English, please, Ez.”

“Your poem, my sweet bird. Your poem.. It’s a tad… morose is it not? The sameness in your choice of verse as our days pass--”

“Sameness _is_ tedium, Ez. You _just_ said--”

“I said I do not associate YOU with tedium, my heart. However, if my ears are subject to one more poem stuffed to the seams with religious iconoclasty at the expense of our fair moon… Well, let’s just say I’ve never considered myself a man close to God, as you well know. Despite the three-lettered name you call me in the throes of a dalliance…”

“Ezra!” You smacked his arm in full force, a heated flush working its way up your neck and warming your cheeks. “Fine,” you shuffle back down into his embrace, stretching along his lap. “No more poems about the moon.”

“Oh, do not punish me so. I hold no ill-will toward lunar allure. The poem was just… morose, is all.” 

You looked up, meeting his gaze again. 

“I just… I can only take prose romanticizing loss and general forlornness so much, you must know,” He muttered.

You sat up again, cupping his cheeks in your palms.

“Ezra, the entire point of my reading to you is to help you relax at the end of the day. If my choice of poem isn’t what you need, well, I’ll just try something different,” you placed a gentle peck on the bridge of his strong nose. “Wallace Stephens is a little old-school anyway,” you hummed, slamming the cover of the journal comprising the collected works you’d pencilled in closed. “Besides, everything we have I’ve written from memory. It’s not my fault I remember the sad ones.” 

You stood up, Ezra’s eyes following across the room as you bent in front of your rucksack and swapped one journal out for another. You crossed back over to him, resuming your curled position in his lap. 

“I assume you have no objection to love poems?” You quirked an eyebrow at Ezra teasingly.

In turn, Ezra had the decency to look mildly offended, even in jest.

“Is it not true that it is said that poetry is the food of love? Well then, I expect a delectable three-course meal, after which I shall fall madly in love with you all over again. Dictate on, birdie.” 

You rest your cheek on his strong thigh, holding the little book out. As you begin to read, Ezra’s hand slips down to the nape of your neck, stroking through the little baby hairs matted there in the humid heat of this hellish planet, his touch a welcome reprieve. 

_“In the throes of winter,_

_Beneath soft, streaked moonlight,_

_Gale force turns to silence, padded and deafening,_

_The snow swirling like silver,_

_Flakes catch in the moonlight of your eyes, and I swear you are more precious;_

_Winter, fearsome goddess that governs these months,_

_Gentle and harsh,_

_Ceasing and relentless,_

_Winter presses the snow,_

_Creeping into our consciousness;_

_“I meet you in the field, no longer green, but fair,_

_Rushed and thrust into the throes of that goddess Winter;_

_As we meet in the center, your palms press mine,_

_Snow is liquid silver--_

_No, it is white gold._

_Winter, that goddess, she presses again--_

_Presses snow into our palms,_

_Insistently._

_In your fiery touch, white gold transforms,_

_Into liquid gold,_

_Where our touch meets;_

_But your touch has always done that,_

_It transforms._

_And in your fiery palms,_

_I melt, too.”_

As you finish the poem, you quietly close the journal and sneak another toward Ezra’s face, noting how his silvery scars catch the low light of your shared space, his shining obsidian eyes an oil-slick pit of incomprehensibility. You have no idea what he’s thinking. And, in rare form, Ezra is silent.

“Ezra?” You call softly. He turns his head to meet your gaze, strong profile causing shifting shadows on the far wall. 

“More Stephens?” He asks. It is rare for Ezra, a man who conveys so many ideas in roughly eight times as many words, to create this level of anxiety in you; rare for you to be unable to decipher his meaning. A quiet, cold panic siezes within your gut as you debate whether to tell him… 

T _o hell with it,_ you think, _he’ll get the truth out of me anyway._

“Um, no, that’s not Stepehens. It’s… Well, I wrote it,” You square your shoulders in preparation for Ezra’s eloquent brand of criticism. “Do you hate it?”

“Do I hate it?” He asked, his tone betraying nothing.

You shift, turning your head away from him, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. How could he be so cruel? Before you can completely turn your head, he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and brings his obsidian gaze back to meet yours. 

“My dearest love, my stardust, how adroit you are, how resplendent… You say I’m the eloquent one and you… your unparalleled mind created that?” He leans forward and captures your lips in a quick but heated kiss. You close your eyes, the tears from the corners slipping silently down your cheeks.

Ezra draws back, wiping your cheek with his warm, calloused thumb. 

“I cannot believe for one moment that you would ferret away the beautiful machinations of your mind from me for one second. Why did you not share that sooner?” Ezra presses.

“Well,” you fiddle with the hem of your threadbare tank top, “Let’s be honest, next to you I’m not nearly as articulate. I thought you would think I was trying too hard, or something. Words are your area, Ez, not mine. You know me. Hit first, ask questions later?” You chuckle weakly.

Ezra’s dark, perpetual gaze refuses to break from the contours of your face as he regards you with care, palm still cradling your cheek. He then barks out a sudden laugh, startling you from your seated position. 

“Birdie, I certainly do NOT corner the market on loquaciousness. You can share as much, or as little, of yourself as you want. Though I confess myself a selfish man as I express a desire for your to share more, not less. In layman’s words? I loved your poem.” He skims his hand down your cheek, coming to rest at the hollow of your throat.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips parting as you whisper, “That’s good, then, because it’s… well, it’s about you?” You lilt the end of your confession, as though asking Ezra’s permission to wax poetic about the feelings he incites. 

“I’ll say again, my lunar goddess, how adroit, how resplendent, how lustrous and magnanimous your mind, your body, your heart…” with each adjective Ezra leans closer until he is whispering his affectations against your lips.

“Ezra?”

“Birdie.”

“Do you think you could tell me how you feel about me in five syllables or less?” 

Ezra chuckles again, softly this time. “Moonshine, I don’t think I could do so adequately in 500 syllables. 5,000. I would need every syllable I am capable of.”

With that, he kisses you again, deeply, your hands sliding up his chest and back to the base of his neck, tangling your fingers into the grown-out curls that rest there. As Ezra slides his tongue against yours, his hand skims down your body and under your thin shirt, coming to rest on your waist. 

You break from his kiss, panting slightly, as Ezra regards the state he’s left you in.

“Which is saying something, bird, because, as you know, I am capable of many, many syllables.” 


	2. winter moon, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reading poetry has become a nightly ritual with Ezra. So much so that Ezra insists you incorporate it into your other “nightly ritual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all, you beautiful souls for your kind words and encouragement with part one. I can’t even begin to express how happy I was that other people enjoyed what I wrote! And thank you, also, for your patience in awaiting part two. I hope, once you read it, you feel that it was worth waiting for. Also, this is my first time EVER writing smut?? And I’m INCREDIBLY nervous about it. So please, please… send me feedback. Let me know what you liked, what you didn’t, what worked, what I need to re-work? I value each and every word. 
> 
> Pairing: Ezra (Prospect) x fem!Reader-- Again, I try to keep my physical descriptions vague. I hope you can imagine your beautiful self with Ezra in this one.
> 
> Warnings: Romance is its own warning. Sex, oral (female receiving), Ezra goes down on you/does you right while you attempt to read poetry, choking, looooots of verbalization during the deed. Bad poetry, bad writing, no plot. 
> 
> Word Count: 3.2k of HOLY SHIT poetry, sweat, verbal honey, and Ezra talking during sex.

You  _ loathe  _ nights like this one. On your too-humid planet. With your too-lumpy couch. With your too-loquacious intergalactic inamorato.

Said Lothario shall issue a challenge-- throw down the proverbial gauntlet. If only you knew what was coming.

This particular, obnoxious evening finds you after a harvest, making some half-hearted attempt at relaxation, but your hurried energy from a day’s worth of hard work still thrums through your veins -- alighting you with electric energy to burn before the inevitable crash. The crash where you and Ezra will twine your tongues and limbs in the dance of dreamless, drifting sleep. Always touching, despite the horrid heat. Ezra will murmur some placation couched in witticism as you drift off. 

But what to do until the fall? Until said crash?

You lean forward on the couch, drumming your fingertips on the corked coffee table, your leg bouncing. 

Ezra looks over at you from across the room, poring over star charts and topographical tomes atop his makeshift desk, plotting for the next day’s take. He quirks a brow at you, huffing air through his hawkish nose.

“Sweet bird, your attempts at percussion, musical though they may be,” he nods toward your rapidly thrumming fingers tip-tapping on the table, “give you the air of someone who is nothing short of  _ tetchy _ . Peevish are you, moon?” 

You huff, half in said annoyance, half in that tireless way that comes only from having to ramp yourself up for an entire, tireless day-- and unable to come down. 

“I guess I’m still just… wound up from the day. It was-- interesting, to say the least.” 

Ezra  _ hmms _ in agreement. It was true. You had run into mercs while out on the other side of your steaming planet, attempting to glean smallish treasures from heated soil. The mercs were tracking a bail jumper, and had passed through yours and Ezra’s digsite, but not before asking you questions that felt nothing short of harshly interrogatory. 

Ezra diffused the situation with his gift for verbal balm, his silver tongued witticisms causing the mercs to chuckle and banter in kind. You stood there, ready to strike, marvelling at your Ezra’s ability to read people at the same time he writes for them-- weaving verbal tapestries of conversational comfort. Such a gift makes friends and enemies. Actions speak louder than words, as they say. Ezra’s actions often more harsh than his words. 

“ _ I am indeed a killer. Are you?”  _

You shudder. Tough though you may be, you certainly had no desire to be on the other side of Ezra in any combative situation. 

The mercs went on their merry way, but not before sizing you up with their eyes, causing you to raise your internal hackles. You had half a mind to advance, fist-raised.  _ Hit first, ask questions later, indeed. _ You thought better of it. 

They left you and Ezra to finish your ferreting. But that’s not all they left you with, the interaction leaving you feeling … odd. Keyed-up, like a too-tight guitar string ready to snap if plucked too harshly. 

Now, here you sit, a particularly misshapen area of your couch digging into the back of our thigh in a way that was  _ just this side  _ of irritating. 

“Well, moonshine? What would soothe your churlish heart?” He moves his hand to his chest, tilting his hips in his seat so he sweeps into a lightly mocking bow. “Am I not” he gasps dramatically, “paying you enough attention? Admittedly this planet’s topography has nothing on  _ your  _ topography.” 

He crosses the room and takes a seat so close to you, your thighs press together almost insistently. He turns his face fully toward you-- leaning in to brush his nose against your neck. 

  
“And what about now?”

"Fuck you, Ez," you tease, shoving his shoulder away from you. 

"Such weight behind such tiny words. Such vulgarity from someone so fair," Ezra chides in return. "Fuck me? Me? My saccharine dream, I'd rather fuck  _ you _ ," Ezra intones, his voice dropping to that timbre that makes you shift and shudder.

“Ezra, come on. Don’t make fun. I’m--” you sweep a hand in gesture to yourself, your threadbare tank pressed into your skin by the heavy air and your day of laborious intent. “I’m gross.” 

“Well, now, in the eternal lexicon of potential locution, ‘ _ gross’ _ is never a word I’d attribute to your personage. You are a venerable treasure, I know I have said it before, because you tease me, time and again, about my  _ tiiiiireless _ elocution.” 

“Ez…” 

He fixes you with his mercurial gaze, features shifting to mock sternness, “Bird.” 

He sighs, his features shifting again to repose. “I understand, the air is--- electrified. I too am not immune to the airborne tension after a day of labor. The arrival of those sanguinous mercenaries likely does little to assuage your electronecaphalography.” 

“No.”

“Might I suggest we retire for the night? You could share your verses with me once more?” He shifts so he now lies next to where you are seated on the couch, his cheek pressed to the top of your thigh, inky eyes meeting yours. “I am content to bask in thine orbit, fair moon.” 

You sigh. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to sleep just yet, but keen to do as Ezra asks. 

“I do have one I’ve been waiting to read to you-- don’t worry,” you chuff out a laugh. “It’s not my own this time. But I think it’s… pretty.” 

“More love poems?” Ezra queries, relinquishing your thigh by lifting his head, allowing you to cross the room and retrieve yet another journal from your pack. 

“I know how fond you are of them,” you chirp, your voice taking on a gruff drawl, your best Ezra impression, “' Is it not true that it is said that poetry is the food of love?'” You sit again, opposite leg bouncing with the remainder of your unrestrained energy. 

As you flip to the page where you’ve scratched in your Shelley, Ezra regards your jerky movements. 

“My spirited, tireless, positively peart birdie, I have a postulation, a proposal for you, if you will?” 

You pause from flipping through your book long enough to meet Ezra’s gaze. 

“Oh?”

“Succor for your aches, a kind of balm, to  _ cure what ails you, _ ” Ezra prophesies, never once breaking your gaze as he shifts from the couch to the floor with catlike grace, coming to kneel in front of you and gripping your bouncing thigh with his firm palm. “Let me be clear, satsuma, for I know you like it when I  _ cut to the chase _ . If you don’t stop reading? I won’t stop either. Find your place,” he nods to the book, “I eagerly await your dictation. But , I think,  _ you  _ eagerly await your dictation.” His hand squeezes your thigh firmly. 

Your eyes widen as you take in his meaning. 

“O-oh. Okay, challenge accepted, Ez.” You put the book down, its pages face down to save your place while you brush your thumb over the button on your pants, popping it free and tugging the zipper to aid Ezra while he waits. He pops up on his knees, hand leaving your thigh to grip your chin, catching your lips in a kiss that is nothing short of  _ searing, burning, wanting _ …

He breaks the kiss, tracing his hand down your side, down your curves, scooping his palm under your bottom to cup there before gripping a fist full of flesh, releasing it just long enough to grip the material of your pants before tugging until they slide down your thighs. 

He nods toward the book, which you pick up as he lowers himself again, seating himself on his heels and prising apart your thighs, leaning in to inhale at your center, causing a tingling sensation to shoot up your spine.

“ _ I sift the snow on the mountains below, _

_ And their great pines groan aghast; _

_ And all the night 'tis my pillow white, _

_ While I sleep in the arms of the blast. _

_ Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, _

_ Lightning my pilot sits -- _ ” 

As you dictate, Ezra is taking his time, nudging your core, still clad with your simple white cotton underwear, with his strong nose, his hand travelling up and down your thigh in repetitive grace. As you reach the fourth line, Ezra has hooked his fingers into the fabric at the crotch of your panties, moving them to the side, while you slouch in your seat to grant him better access. 

_ “In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, _

_ It struggles and howls at fits; _

_ Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, _

_ This pilot is guiding me, _

_ Lured by the love of the genii that move _

_ In the depths of the purple sea.” _

Ezra takes his time pressing kisses to the insides of your thighs, his hand keeping your underwear swept to the side. His facial hair and whiskers scratching the marks of his presence into red ridges along your thighs, his kisses pressed insistently higher and higher to your center, where you eagerly await him, your body roiling with heat, your core flooding with arousal. One particularly insistently pressed kiss follows with teeth, biting gently into the flesh of your inner thigh, retracting but not releasing, until he relents. He follows the bite with a catlike lick-and-kiss, causing your breath to hitch, your words to hiss, as you hit the line, 

_ “Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, _

_ Over the lakes and the plains, _

_ Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, _

_ The Spirit he loves remains” _

Finally,  _ finally _ , Ezra takes pity on your pathetic gasps as you trace over the syllables of your poem, and he presses his tongue, flat and long, to where you need him most. He licks tenderly, but firmly, insistently, along your core, his fingers coming to meet his mouth at your center, so he can part you-- holding spreading your petals, open and in bloom, just for him. Only for him. 

_ “ _ A- and-  _ And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile, _

_ Whilst he is dissolving in rains….”  _

You trail, smiling over your words as Ezra continues his ministrations to your core, gasping when he wriggles a thick finger in, turning his tongue's attention to your bud. A particularly insistent suck causes you to gasp, dropping the book and latching your hands into his hair, your hips giving a weak thrust into Ezra’s mouth. Ezra’s ears tune to your piteous cry, his gracious heart allowing for a few more licks and sucks before withdrawing completely from you, his chin glistening with the physical manifestation of your innermost intimacy, reserved for Ezra. Only for Ezra. 

“You know my rules, birdie,” Ezra drawls, glancing up from between your eyes, his molten eyes locking with your wild ones, finger still firmly pressed inside of you. “This can’t continue if  _ you _ won’t.”

“Sorry, E-ez,” you gulp, wriggling your hips, desperate to regain the bliss his hand promises, while scrabbling to retrieve the temporarily-abandoned book of hand-scratched poetry from where you’d tossed it aside in your throes. “I- I can keep reading.” 

“Well,  _ you’d _ certainly hope so, wouldn’t you?” Ezra quirked a strong brow at you. “After all, it is your pleasure at stake, sweet nectarine, not mine. I await your direction. Dictate on.” 

You sigh. You’d have half a mind to be annoyed at him for stopping, if the promise of his continuance didn’t outweigh it. You hold the book up, and read, 

_ “The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, _

_ And his burning plumes outspread, _

_ Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, _

_ When the morning star shines dead.” _

As soon as you resume, so does Ezra, with earnest, licking, sucking, his finger joined by a second, plucking and playing you like his most prized harp, your gasps and stumbles around each line of poetry music to his wearied ears. 

As you reach the next stanza, riding and roiling through waves of pleasure, your breach hitches as his two fingers rub  _ that spot _ insistently, his tongue,  _ oh his silver tongue _ , continuing to wreak its havoc over you. 

Ezra quirks a brown, keen to the telltale sign of your approaching peak. He doubles his efforts, stroking your inner walls in earnest before retracting his fingers and licking a long stripe up your center, sucking your petal-like lips gently, before focusing on your clit, fingers resuming their interior exploration. 

The heat, the humidity, Ezra, your attempts to focus-- all causing you to shortcircuit as you feel your orgasm approach.

_ Fuck it _ , you think, tossing the book down, one hand pushing your tank up over your breasts to grip one, fingers brushing a pebbled nipple, while your other hand latches into Ezra’s hair, rolling your hips to meet his tongue before finally,  _ finally _ , your release washes over you, causing you to let out a gasping, choked moan. 

Ezra has the decency to look a little pleased as he withdraws from you, pressing a kiss to your thigh. You are a  _ sight,  _ he thinks, half in-love with you already as he takes in your gasping, beautiful form. He shakes himself, quickly masking his affection with consternation, shooting his hand out to grip you by the throat, directing your body to land on the couch with him atop you, thumb and forefinger pressing intently into your neck.

“Now, I know you can comprehend the Basic language, because you do so quite well, despite complaining about the level of comprehension my vocabulary requires. So I know you heard me when I said not. To. stop.” He squeezes lightly with each of the last three, punctuated words. “And when I tell you to do something, bird, I  _ mean that shit. _ ”

He releases your throat before invading your space, and your better senses, crushing his mouth to yours in a bruising,  electroencephalographic kiss, causing sparks to shoot from the tips of your toes to the ends of your hair, you grip his shirt desperately. 

He breaks the kiss and glares down his nose at you, “Now, how to punish you, your wild form, your adroit mind, your sinful eyes, which are clearly so keen to accept my sting?”

“I’m sorry, E- ez, s-sorry,” you gasp, hand still clutched in his shirt. He knocks your wrist away, his hand coming to tug his shirt over his head. 

He glares at your still form, admonishing. “Well, don’t just sit here, make yourself useful if you insist on this course of action,” he gruffly teases. Your fingers fumble as they meet his belt, unbuckling quickly and sliding it through the loops of his pants, before unbuttoning and tugging them down his thighs.

Quick as a flash, and now completely disrobed, Ezra’s hand is back on your throat again, driving you into the couch, irritating lumpiness all but forgotten as he looms over you, his nacreous eyes roving over your body, peeling you apart, atom by atom; his gaze is covetous.

“I shouldn’t give you what you want, birdie, since you cannot seem to do me the same courtesy. However, your exercise in  _ restraint _ with those mercs earlier did not go unnoticed. Suppose I bequeath my gratitude?” He grinds out through huffed, heavy breaths, his hardness pressing into your thigh. “Would you like that, moonshine? Hm?”

You nod fervently, while Ezra sighs,

“ _Of course you would_.”

And with that, he adjusts his hips before slamming into you  _ hard,  _ punching the air from your lungs, causing you to clench around him as his fingers are still clenched around your neck.

Ezra begins to move, building a bruising, rhythmically punishing,  _ beautiful _ pace, your legs wrapped around Ezra’s pistoning hips as he drives you into the couch, one hand clutching his back, the other gripping your tits together beneath Ezra’s chest. Ezra’s repeated, welcome momentum making your body sing.

And if that isn’t just how Ezra makes you feel? Your skin on fire, burning. While you twist and writhe through the proverbial flames at his resplendent touch, his flowing--yet punctuated--cadence washes over you, every world a welcome balm. 

“ _ Aw _ , now…” he croons, slightly mocking, “Isn’t that just a  _ delight _ ,” he punctuates the word with a thrust that punches the air from your lungs. 

His hand, wrapped around your throat, thumb pressed to the hollow where jaw meets neck. He moves his hand up to cup your face, thumb and forefinger pressing intently into your cheeks, causing your lips to pucker, as your eyes flutter shut, your head tilting back into the couch cushion.

Succor indeed. But not just that. 

_ Ardor _ . 

“Oh, birdie,” Ezra chides as his thrusts continue to drive you toward yet another tipping, dripping edge, “You get this from no one else. You share this with no one else. I see you for who you are, in this moment and every moment.” Your blood rushes through your ears, your entire body throbbing as you and Ezra chase release together. 

“Of course, you don’t stay for the sake of my physical prowess, nor any fear I may strike in your fair heart, which beats so readily beneath your beautiful breast. No, no, my pearlescent bird. You stay for one reason, and one reason alone.” Ezra’s mercurial gaze meets yours as he slows his thrusts to a torturous pace, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours. “You crave me. Say it, bird.”

You shudder as his slow thrusting meets a particularly desirable spot deep within, tilting your head to release a whining sigh. His honey-warm words dripping lazily over you, awash with want. 

“Say. It. You crave me, my touch. Say it.” 

If Ezra’s words didn’t drive you to the edge of madness, his slow pace and punishing gaze surely would. You gasp with each meeting of his hips and yours, before you can finally pant out any kind of affirmative articulation to Ezra’s satisfaction.

“I cr-- I crave you, Ez… Fuck,  _ please. _ I crave your touch, I crave your cock, I crave  _ you, _ ” you cry. 

Your words, and his own momentum, drive you and Ezra over together, he snarls his release into your ear as you cry out, bodies slumped together, pressed together by the oppressive heat and your mutual longing.

Ezra sighs as he withdraws from you, shifting so the two of you rest together companionably. His lips brush yours softly, melted chocolate eyes roving over your soft features. He rises up slightly and presses a firm, warm kiss to your forehead, meeting your gaze as he professes, 

"You are more sacred to me than any stone, the most beautiful thing to grace the tips of my fingers. Aurelac may as well be sand, numerous and entirely common in comparison to the gem before mine eyes."

You smile, tracing his peaked cheeks with your finger before you sheepishly chuckle, 

“Sorry I didn’t finish the poem.” 

Ezra, in his embrace of you, gives you a little squeeze, and smiles. 

“Not to worry, my lunar deity. Do not cause yourself grief on my behalf, for I think we will find another time to read. Percy Bysshe Shelly, was it?” 

You nod. “Good ear, my love. It was ‘ _ The Cloud _ .’” 

“Ah, of all the aerial wonders. I do adore that one. Especially the bit about the moon,” and to your continued shock-- although all Ezra is is full of wondrous surprise to you, full of violent but beautiful contradiction-- he begins to recite, 

_ “That orbèd maiden with white fire laden, _

_ Whom mortals call the Moon, _

_ Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, _

_ By the midnight breezes strewn.” _

“Yes! That’s the one. I knew you’d know it,” you sigh in contentment, pleased at your shared love of literature. “Although, I will leave you with this one, since I didn’t finish the other, ‘T he center of every poem is this: I have loved you,’” you profess, pressing a kiss to Ezra’s sharp jaw. 

“Ah,” he sighs contentedly, “Peaches and cream, little nectarine. Peaches and cream.”


	3. winter moon, part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here it is, the third installment in the “Winter Moon” series, with Ezra and his fellow literary-lover and his erstwhile travel companion. 
> 
> While this is the third part of the series, it is actually technically part zero, as it takes place well before part one. I hope that makes sense. 
> 
> I hope this one isn’t weird, or rushed, or that Ezra isn’t too OOC. I tried to weave together elements from each part to make this cohesive, while making this a story about how you and Ezra meet. Happy reading!
> 
> Warnings: 18 + only, please! Romance is its own warning. Sex, oral (male and female receiving-- I’ve never wanted to suck a dick so bad in my life, I swear), Ezra goes down on you/does you right, choking, sloppy kissing, looooots of verbalization during the deed. Violence/fighting. Literary references. Because it’s me.

You had come to Khoriaxis with the same idea as just about anyone else; keep your head down, obtain some honest work -- well, as honest as your line of work could be -- and count your credits while you mind your own business.

Khoriaxis was rife with an ore that burned cleanly, brightly. 

And so, like so many moths to a proverbial flame, Khoriaxis became a hub for harvesters, mercenaries, and the like. Not that you had ever envisioned yourself harvesting; in truth, you were no digger. You were no one worth noting, if anyone had asked you. Not that they did; and didn’t that just kinda drive home the point?

No, you were raised on your father’s farm on a small, left-of-Central world with other Earth refugees and their descendants, throwing yourself into hard work at your father’s behest. It suited you, lending itself to the building of muscles, a thick skin -- both proverbial and literal -- and an appreciation for sweet fruits won of labor. 

Coming of age had served as a turning point, and isn’t it supposed to? You planet-hopped with a group of beneath-the-radar, backwater scum who, cumulatively, became one of the system’s most sought-after forms of travelling entertainment -- fighting pits. 

Your years of rough-and-tumble lifestyle had lent itself to the ability to take a hit. And you had always had a sharp mind, if you were honest with yourself. Farm work replete with mechanic tinkering did not really allow for an idle mind. And the books you had ferreted away beneath the floorboards of your father’s creaking, windblown home may have had something to do with your appreciation for prose. 

What followed was a litany of thrown punches, cracked ribs, and skin swollen in shades of tender purple and black. Occupational hazard of sideshow fighting. The bruising and ever-present scabbing on your knuckles mirrored what beat beneath your breast, a piecemeal muscle chewed up and bled by a slew of leech-like exes left on planets you now weren’t sure you could recall the name of. It was better this way, though, wasn’t it? 

The men and women you deigned to call partner, with whom you dared to share the unbruised pieces of your heart, had only ultimately disappointed you. But not before you were somehow the disappointing one. You were either too cut or too soft, too glacial and inhospitable or too emotional, too dull or too tackish. 

You had long given up on the idea so prevalent in the stories and poems you had once (and still, if you were honest with yourself) loved to consume. That somewhere, out in the universe, was the constellation abutting your orbital moon, the other half of your fragmented heart. Someone who would fill the cracks in the missing parts of yourself with liquid gold, rendering you complete in the eye of said beholder. 

So here you find yourself, with a stormcloud mind and in a body much too young to feel so old, waiting to meet the next crew for a harvesting gig. You were to serve as perimeter enforcement while the prospectors burrowed for ore. A bull running pacing protection for the little truffle pigs while they snuffled away. 

And of all of the hovels on Khoriaxis to meet in, the leader of your maiden crew just had to pick _this_ one. 

Seedy did not even begin to describe the extent of dim, sticky odium that constituted this “bar.” A few, swinging lights dotted the ceiling, providing the packed-in patrons barely enough light to track their drinks by. You were sure that the perpetually sweaty, angry man behind the bar was also the owner; though what business model he thought he was succeeding at was beyond you. You just weren’t sure how a sweat-stained, pitted tank and a fat lip jutted ever-downward in a tooth-baring snarl was “service with a smile.” But, then again, he probably didn’t care. If you kept your head down and your credits were good, you would be gifted with a shooter of pod fuel meant to be booze. 

You sat in the corner at an off-kilter table, waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive -- always habitually early borne of the desire never to be caught off guard in any situation. 

This was the first time you had run into Ezra.

\---

Your meeting had run long, but the crew seemed solid. With an agreement to meet the following day at the hangar and some dwindling small talk, the crew had filtered out over the course of the evening.

Your overactive mind and restless legs kept you from wandering out with the rest of your newfound "friends." Perhaps it was the shifty, seedy energy of the dive; perhaps it was your fighter's nature. No matter which way your synapses sliced it, you just weren't quite ready to call it a night.

Your fingers drummed a _tip-tapping_ chorus atop the sticky tabletop, eyes flitting around the darkened corners of the pub.

You _loathe_ nights like this one --

Your skin feeling stuffed to the seams with flush, anxious, flitting energy manifesting itself in physical tics -- craving an outlet for your excess vigor. At one time in your life, you possibly would have craved a fight; the physical push-and-pull of a good, old-fashioned tussle, the cruelty of your fists allied with your compulsive mind. For you, then, fighting often gave way to fucking. Push-and-pull became tugging, tongue, lips and teeth. You would burn brightly, if only for a moment; until your sparking verve faded to emptiness, finally, _finally_ allowing you to sleep.

On quieter nights, you preferred the simplistic comfort of time alone, spent curled in a space you could call your own with something good to read. But literature is scarce on planets picked clean of the resources that gifted it with life.

But, no. Tonight was a restless night. 

As your glazed eyes trawled over the masses, your ears couldn't miss the elevated tone of a drawling voice. What you suspected was an ordinarily smooth, silvery and even tone was punctured with harsh, upticked energy -- heated syrup spilling too quickly over the sides of a tilted bowl. 

You turned toward the source of the voice,

“Now, Carson, I know you and I have had our encounters in the past. Councils of war, were they not? Now I have _always_ respected you, but I must protest --"

“Man, shut the hell up,” the man who must have been Carson said, ripping away a case that had rested at the foot of the other man’s barstool. “We’re even now, floater.” 

Carson made to turn away, a few jeering, musclebound cronies in tow. But not before the drawling man quickly, snappishly gripped Carson’s elbow, forcing him to spin around. 

“We are most decidedly _not_ even. Ever-so-fond you are of tipping the scales in favor of your own fortune, though you know damn well I did not cheat you back on Emodol. I’m going to give you one chance to return my rightfully-earned property and to leave our history on that haggard moon where it belongs, before I am inclined to compel you into reckoning with this course of action.”

The threat took about five times as many syllables to come out of the man’s mouth as it took for the punctuated meaning to land. The warm, drawling voice gave way to a cold, forceful staccato. The man’s dark eyes burning with insistent and enterprising energy as he squared his shoulders and stood from his seat. 

Quick as a flash, Carson’s goons grabbed the man by his shoulders, tugging his thin shirt, and pressing him back down into his barstool with an angry grunt, while Carson held the case over the man’s head.

"The kindness of a one-armed harvester," he sneered. "What's the matter? Can't reach?" He held the man's case above his own head, favoring the man's side where you could now see he was missing an arm, Carson dangling the case like a swishing toy just beyond a waspish cat's reach.

You huffled angrily through your nose. If there was one thing you hated, it was a bully who couldn’t even fight his own battles. 

And it’s not as though you were _looking_ for a fight, but one may have just found you. Besides, your knuckles were itchy, and these mudscuffers were pissing you off. 

"Hey!" 

Four heads whipped in your direction.

“Something tells me that doesn’t belong to you,” you nodded at the case in Carson’s outstretched arms. “So, I would give that back if I was you.” You sipped your drink, putting the glass on the tabletop. 

“You would?” Carson chuckled, rolling his eyes slightly at you. “What else would you do if you were me?” 

“Apologize to the man,” you nodded toward the guy being pressed into his barstool. “Then you,” you pointed at him and then his partners in turn, “Tweedle-Dee, and Tweedle-Dum can all go drink your pod fuel in another shithole,” you rose from your seat slowly, cocking your hip, leaning slightly back against the tabletop. 

Thing One and Thing Two both chuckled from either side of the man; Carson, to his dimwitted credit, looked somewhat surprised, eyeing you up and down. He twisted his mouth into an ugly, wry grin.

“That’s some big talk, Princess. Tell you what: I’ll leave the guy alone -- he’s not worth the shit on my boot; and you and I can go and talk about it somewhere nice. Somewhere quiet.” 

You walked slowly toward the group; the rest of the tavern paying you no mind. The sweaty proprietor focusing his attention to the clamoring group at the other end of the bar. You stopped just shy of the bully.

“Something tells me you and I wouldn’t have much to talk about,” you started. “I won’t ask again. Give it back, knuckle-dragger.” You clenched your fist at your side. 

Carson dropped the smile. 

“You’re in over your head, girl. Don’t stick your neck out in this corner of the world, someone may come along and step on it. Go back to your drink and leave the boys to talk,” he shoved your shoulder. “Or make your mouth useful.” 

At your faltering step backward with the force of the shove, the man on the stool spoke up, “Carson, surely you wouldn’t deign to raise your hand to a lady. There may be no honor among thieves, but surely --” 

The bully now had turned his attention to the verbose man who had once again found his voice. Turning away from you was mistake one. 

With swiftness borne from years of outrunning your own demons, you reached up, grabbing the back of Carson’s head and bringing it down on the bartop -- _hard._

The case clattered to the ground, Thing One and Thing Two staring slack-jawed dumb in surprise while Carson held his now-gushing nose. He snarled at you and swung, which you easily avoided, sending Carson where his weight was already hurtling him, right onto the sticky floor. 

The one-armed man from the stool took advantage of his captors’ surprise, jabbing his left arm into the side of one of the men holding him, while you dodged a swing from the other one. As your attacker swung past you, you knocked the back of his knee with a kick of your boot. 

The scuffle now had gotten the barkeep’s attention, stepping toward your scuffling group with a large metal bat and a grimace. 

You held up your hands in surrender, “Hey, man, they started it. They were hassling your customers.” You gestured at the one-armed man, who was lightly panting with the force of the swing, and bending over to retrieve his case. 

The proprietor shook his head, nudging Carson’s form on the floor, “You and your buddies -- Out. Now.” 

As your newfound friends made their hasty retreat with the owner escorting them out, you turned toward the man on the stool. Crossing your arms over your chest, you raked your eyes over his tawny skin and mussed raven hair-- pitch, save for one rebellious streak of blonde-- and down his sloping, hawkish nose that sat proudly on an angular, but welcoming, face. You noted his full lips twisting into a conman’s grin. 

You felt your skin warm at the idea that he had seen you cataloguing his features. 

With his case set atop the bar, he turned his body more fully to greet you, holding out his left hand. You clasped it as he finally spoke, honeyed drawl meeting your ears. 

“That was quite a way to make an introduction, bird. I am Ezra.” 

You gave him your name, which he repeated back to you, as though he was cataloguing the way it sounded leaving his own mouth. 

“That _is_ what they call me. If you’re by yourself, you can sit with me. I don’t think they’ll come back, or get past the doorman, but you’re welcome to --”

You couldn’t finish your sentence before the man -- Ezra -- got to his feet, following you to the sticky booth in the dim corner of the bar that you had previously been occupying. 

His swirling, tarpit eyes never left your face as you settled back into your seat. 

“You did not need to intervene, you know. I had it well in hand.” With that, he flexed his left hand, a wry attempt at a joke. “Why stick your ever-so-lovely neck out for a roguish stranger on _this_ side of the planet? Don’t you know the sort of people that come to Khoriaxis?” 

You resumed drumming your nails on the bartop, mulling over your answer. The drumming ceased a you opened your mouth to answer:

“You ask that like you didn’t just see me get into a barfight. Which makes me _exactly_ the kind of person that would come to Khoriaxis.”

Ezra exhaled amusedly through his nose. 

“I don’t like bullies,” you amended. “And I--”

“You were looking for a fight,” Ezra finished. “A tussle. A means for the little birdie to ruffle her feathers. I see the itch, girl,” he nodded at your once-tapping fingers. “And you outlasted your grim-looking crew.”

You looked up at Ezra through your lashes. “You were watching me?”

Ezra’s swirling, syrupy eyes refused to move from yours; the attention was starting to make you feel warm, causing you to shift in your seat. 

“I would not do you the discourtesy of lying to your pleasing, pulchritudinous personage. You are by the sling’s throw the most striking thing here.”You rolled your eyes at the multisyllabic flattery, “That’s not saying much, Ezra.” You gestured a finger at the gruff-looking patrons littering the cantina. 

“Oh but it is,” he breathed. “I do love a turn of phrase, but I am not in the habit of deceiving lovely things such as yourself with underhanded prose. Your warrior’s countenance does not hurt -- a regular Camilla of the Volsci.” 

“You’ve read Virgil.” 

He nodded, spreading his legs beneath the table and leaning back in the both. 

“And apparently so have you. So how does a nightbloom like yourself find herself with a crew of diggers on this side of the system? You are a fellow scourer, then?”

You shake your head with a snort. “I’m no scratcher,” you place your hand over your chest. “I lack the patience. And the heartlessness.” 

Whether you had offended Ezra by taking a little dig at his assumed profession, he gave no indication. He rested his arm along the booth, shifting ever-so-closely to the corner where you sat. 

“You’re no gatherer, then. A hunter?”

You tilted a mordant, split-lipped grin at the enigmatic man, propping your elbows on the table and resting your chin on upturned palms, never breaking his gaze. 

“Suppose I was. What would I hunt?”

You were being more coy than usual. You so rarely afforded yourself any form of flirtation, even when it was slightly left of churlish to most. But to your dark stranger’s credit, he did not balk at your verbal aggression. In truth, you were hoping to scare him off; ever mistrustful of ongoing male attention. But, here he was.

“If I could be so bold as to venture a poor estimation at postulation -- you appear capable of hunting whatever you wanted,” he paused for a beat. Was it to suck in another breath? You had never heard someone use so many words to answer a simple question. But he apparently had further to go with this thought -- 

“Or whomever,” he dipped his dark brow at you, white teeth flashing in a predatory grimace. “I doubt much gets away from you once you set your sights on _him_.” 

_Ah._ So, he _had_ recognized your grim attempt at flirtation. Not only that, he was engaging. 

“You’re bold, friend,” you offered back, shooting back your long-neglected cup of the miserable brine this bar had the audacity to charge for. You placed your cup back on the tabletop with a dull _thunk_ , empty as you were expressionless. 

“A friend?” He chirped, “Well, as your friend, allow me to make myself known to you. You already know my name, and my profession, though I sense you disapprove.” He regarded your now-empty cup and your resting, stony expression. “And you are no faire maiden.”

“I don’t like dirt under my nails.” You shrugged. “I go where the credits are good and where I can make myself useful. Not unlike yourself. You were pretty quick to knock an elbow into the man holding you. You’re more than big words and dirty hands.” 

Was it just you, or was the space between the two of you in the both disappearing the longer your conversation progressed. You hadn’t moved from your corner, but your new friend seemed as slippery as his silver tongue. 

“A man’s work is no petty thing, bird,” Ezra mused. “He threatened what was mine. Believe you me; had you not struck, I would have.” His voice dropped an octave as he leveled his threat. 

“You’re some sort of scoundrel?”

“In my time, a great number of words have been used to describe me, that word among them. But trust me, peaches, that word does not begin to cover it.”

“Shameless,” you smirked.

“That word, too,” Ezra breathed, suddenly swarming you. 

The shrinking space in the booth now nonexistent as Ezra placed his arm over yours on the table, leaning in and allowing his thigh, his side to press into yours. 

Was it just you, or was Ezra’s shrewd gaze fixed upon your lips?

He leaned forward, eyes hooded, lightly brushing your mouth with his warm one. You slightly parted your lips, kissing him back gently. You pressed your calloused palm into the side of his warm face, leaning your body away from his, backing into the booth..

“That both does and doesn’t answer my question, Ez,” you pointed.

He blinked slowly.

“ _Ez_?” He asked, his lips tilted in a way that caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle in a not-unpleasant way, signalling his amusement with the moniker.

“You must have called me four different nicknames by now,” you chriped. “I get one.” 

“You’re something of an enigma yourself,” he said. “A seemingly delicate little bird with a sharp beak and even sharper claws. Though she _has_ read Virgil. And she hates prospectors.”

So maybe he was still a little sore at your jab about his profession earlier. 

“You’re putting words in my mouth, _Ez._ ” You posited, leaning away from him in the booth. “I don’t hate diggers. They’re a gruff sort with not a lot to ‘em. I don’t like that they tear things from the soil, from where they belong, and sell them off. It’s … seedy.”

Ezra reeled back as though you had just slapped him, once-warm eyes flashing like the cold steel of a blade.

“And being a mercenary is of a higher honor?” Ezra snapped. “I told you before, _trill,_ a man’s work is no petty thing. And you’ve taken your relentless, beating fists to mine.”

You frowned.

“I’m no merc,” you hissed. Your palms curling, hands clenching. “I don’t kill.”

“I do,” Ezra snarled, cheerful crinkles gone from the corners of his eyes, replaced with a mirthless coolness. “And you consider yourself cut from richer cloth?” 

“No,” you whispered, “eyes fixed on your empty glass, keen to look anywhere but at him. 

“I was wrong,” he pressed. “Which is not something I am often keen to admit. But you are no enigma.” 

His body had long left the space of yours, the cool air of the cantina unpleasant in the way it washed over the now unoccupied space.

“No?” Yours was a question this time. 

"Indulge me and allow me to extrapolate further?" Ezra’s tone was morbid in the way it was so even, sure to swing a killing blow.

You nodded, giving silent acquiescence for Ezra to continue this little vengeful game of his, feeding your rage as he fed his. 

"You believe if you leave enough bruises on others, they will overpower and cause to fade the bruises left upon your own wasted heart by sheer volume alone," he _hmm'd_ seemingly piteously. As though he was _sorry_ for you. "But I have news for you. It certainly will not. And you would be gravely mistaken. A lonely life for a battered heart. A flightless, afeared little bird."

You clenched your jaw. _How dare he?_

"Do you want to know what I think?" You ground out, turning to face the arrogant prospector.

"Well, by all means, grace me with your innermost musings," he posited, a little too smugly for your liking -- like he hadn't just verbally shot your personhood full of holes in retaliation for a passing, ill-placed insult.

You leaned forward on the table, placing your weight on your wrists as you pressed, once again, closer to Ezra through the dim light of the bar. 

"You talk a lot of shit for someone who never says _anything_ ," you sneered.

With that, you tossed a few eddies on the tabletop, slipping out of the booth, boots clunking on the tacky linoleum. 

“Here’s your bird.” You flipped your middle finger at Ezra before turning on your heel and walking out of the bar. 

\---

You woke a measly few hours later, turning over in your cot that you had rented from the bay. 

Oh-four-hundred. On the dot. You bemoaned Khoriaxis’s 28-hour cycle. It would be a long day, and you had gone to sleep too close to your waking hour. 

You wiped your bleary eyes, cheeks burning in shame as you recalled the heated words you had exchanged with the man you had, moments before, been kissing in a bar the night before. 

_That devolved quickly,_ you thought, stretching your arms, shoulders popping. 

You padded across your rented space, pulling your long johns and henley on, donning the padded, strapped flight suit you would need as you travelled with your crew. You laced up your steel-toed boots, strapped your blaster to your thigh, and slinging your thrower across your back. You grabbed your brass knuckles, a token tool for any hired muscle, slipping one set on and the other in your pocket. Flexing your fist, you vowed to put the conversation from the night before, and the infuriating bullhead who went with it, out of your mind. 

As you crossed the bay toward your designated hangar, you recognized the cleanshaven head and stocky build of the leader of your little outfit. His icy eyes met yours as he nodded in greeting. 

You nodded back, eyes drifting over the rest of your crew, until they met the ochre, glittering ones you recognized as Ezra’s. 

_What the fuck._

He smirked at you, unmoving while the rest of the crew bustled around making itself ready for takeoff to the southern pole of Khoriaxis. 

Your eyes met Ezra's indurated ones.

" _You_."

"Me," Ezra replied, calmly. "And you! If it isn't my _protector_. Chekov’s indomitable little muscle."

"Eat me,” you snipped.

“I thought I made it clear last night, little bird, we were having such a _nice_ time … until we weren’t. And nothing would delight me more. I’m quick with my tongue, surely you would agree. Such an arrangement would really only benefit you, and perhaps, make you a tad more _agreeable_.” 

You could feel the tips of your ears burning with copperish anger and, though you would never admit it out loud, arousal. You chose to ignore Ezra’s lewd barb, snarling instead:

“Perhaps you wouldn't need a protector if you had a muzzle. Studies show men who talk out of their asses less have a one hundred percent chance of not getting their ass beat. It's simple: don't provoke strangers, don't get hit."

"And deprive you the opportunity to swoop in and save the beautiful damsel from self-inflicted distress? I think not. Nice knuckle-dusters, by the way. If I didn't know any better, birdie, I'd say you came prepared to fight."

"Well you’re right about one thing, you don't know better, Ez," you replied mockingly. “What are you _doing_ here?” 

“As you well-know, I am a _miner._ This is a _mining_ operation.” Ezra explained slowly, as though he was speaking to a child. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Since you were watching me last night,” you replied primly, “you should know. This is the crew that hired me.”

“I mean what are you doing with _him?”_ He gestured at the back of your leader. “With _Cyrus._ Cyrus the damn virus. You’re so opposed to mining? Cyrus is no harvester. He’s a _pillager._ And a murderer,” Ezra whispered harshly to you, not wanting to be overheard. 

If you hadn’t been so deeply offended by Ezra’s earlier attempts to both insult and dissuade you, perhaps you would have been a bit more discerning about who you signed up with. As it was, you did not want to give Ezra the satisfaction. 

“So are you, you told me as much. Or are you all talk, as I suspect you are?” Before Ezra could respond, “Just keep your distance, _digger._ And I’ll keep mine.” 

With that, you turned on your heel, briskly making your way to joint the rest of the bustling crew. 

\---

Khoriaxis’s southernmost pole was lush, warm and wooded; abundant with greenery. 

It reminded you of the lastingly famous line from Neruda, “Every day you play with the light of the universe.” 

Your crew set up camp where Cyrus so indicated, brandishing his marked map as though he were a regular typographical Magellan. You were pitching and sealing the tents with the other bruiser, while Cyrus and his fellow diggers began their scouting circuits, marking their intended digsites. 

You huffed as you completed the air purifying cycle in the last tent; two to a kip. You had hoped to split with the other member of the security team; but as he had dropped his stuff on the cot in the neighboring tent next to the belongings of one of the diggers, your hopes were dashed. 

You left your pack containing your spare clothes, toothbrush, dehydrates, canteen on a bunk. The top of your mildly overflowing pack betrayed the most frivolous of your belongings -- a hardbound journal containing your scratchings, where you had scribbled lines of poetry, prose and literature from memory. How many times had you read David Foster Wallace? Your favorite segments of “The Pale King” featured prominently in this journal; the others left back in your locker in the main bay in Central Khoriaxis. 

You brushed off your creeping baby hairs that were sticking to the sides of your face, feeling warm with the exertion of constructing the shelters. 

As you put your helmet back on and made your way outside, you were met at the mouth of your tent by none other than Ezra. 

“Oh, no. No. You? Out.” You pointed your finger out the flap of the tent. “Sleep with someone else.” 

“My little sour grape, there is no one else. Every other bunk is full,” Ezra was grinning like the cat who ate the canary. 

“Bull-fucking-shit,” you snipped, looking outside and seeing the remainder of the crew filtering in and out of the other tents.

“I wonder,” Ezra said from behind you, “Why you would be the remaining singular person without a bunkmate.” You turned to see him tapping his chin as though deep in thought. “It couldn’t be your buttery, _saccharine_ disposition, could it?” He sarcastically posited. 

You strode toward Ezra, stopping in front of him. 

“Here’s the deal,” you prodded his chest with a firmly pointing finger. “You keep your shit to yourself, and I’ll do the same. When we’re in here together, you shut the fuck up. We won’t have a problem.”

“You are mistaken about something, birdie. I have no problem with you. And if you weren’t so buried in your protestations and in the feelings of your _irascible_ little heart, perhaps I would give you what you want.” 

Was he always this smug?

"There's nothing I want from you," you seethed, balling your hands into fists at your side.

Ezra blinked at you slowly, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly upward.

"I do believe that _you_ believe what you've just said," He replied, primly. "I do, however, remain unconvinced.” He looked over your shoulder at your bunk.

“And what is that?” Ezra nodded past you and toward your rucksack, the cover and spines of your journal and a few additional volumes peeking out.

You scoffed. 

“What does it look like? Enough of this. Don’t touch my shit. I have to go run the perimeter. Just … try not to fuck this up for me,” you made to leave; but not before Ezra gripped your wrist with a firm, gloved hand. 

"I am disinclined to believe you, little falling star. Do not take things so personally and get taciturn with me," Ezra released your wrist and pressed his hand to his chest as if he were touting honorous words. "For I hardly trust any man … or beautiful woman, as the case may be."

"You are not a nice man." You folded your arms over your chest, squaring your shoulders and frowning at the man before you from behind a furrowed brow.

Ezra barked a laugh at that, leaving you fuming, with heat creeping to the tips of your ears.

"Nice? Oh, there is no more onerous word in our eternal language rife with option than 'nice,' but for conversational consistency and brevity, I'll have linguistic mercy on you, bird," Ezra bared his teeth in a predator's grin. "I am _not_ nice. Unless you so decide to be nice to _me first_ . In which case, let me inform you … I give as good as I get … sweet nectarine. You _can_ be sweet, can’t you?"

At the inflection on the word "nectarine," a new nickname you were decidedly not opposed to, you thought you had caught the click of his silvery tongue over his teeth, sharp as his words. But all you seemed to be capable of focusing on was just what you could imagine that tongue twisting over _yours,_ when it wasn't twisting its way around overly-complicated words, that is. 

The thought caused you to shiver slightly. The action would likely go unnoticed by any standard man. But Ezra was no standard man, his shrewd gaze devouring your slightest quiver, a rush of pleasure and pride flooding through his own veins at the sight.

You rolled your eyes, leaving the tent in a huff as Ezra’s fading, lilting words met your departing ears, which he so clearly intended you to hear.

“I do love it when you’re mad. It gets this southern blood of mine … pumping.”

\---

The days passed on your dig; you would rise earlier than Ezra, maintaining the wall of silence you had erected between you. Leaving to run the perimeter of your digsite, and checking the motion sensors you had set up to warn you should anyone cross into your crew’s area. 

You had been fortunate; other than a few floaters who were idly exploring the pole, you had not encountered anyone intent on creating trouble for your crew. 

No, the only one creating trouble for you was the bronze-skinned miner with a devilish wit and a cloying tongue. 

Cyrus had so generously assigned you to patrolling the tunnel where Ezra was digging. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought he did it on purpose. You had been avoiding Ezra. 

As you stood at the mouth of the tunnel where Ezra dug away, you could hear him chattering away just inside, his voice echoing off the cool, dirt walls of the tunnel and reaching your ears. He clearly was attempting to talk to you moreso than himself; but without reciprocity, he succeeded only in talking _at_ you. 

“... And so I formed the opinion that the pious should vanish for all time from the vestiges of this system. An overly judgmental sort, if you ask me, and far too prudish.” 

You rolled your eyes, watching the trees sway gently in the warm, Khoriaxian air. 

Not for the first time, you found yourself thinking of your favorite poem. 

“I go so far as to think you own the universe,” you hummed under your breath. “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.” 

“What was that?” Ezra’s voice was closer, less echo-y from behind you as he emerged from the tunnel. 

You sighed, feeling far too serene with the surrounding picturesque planet to spar with Ezra today. 

“Just a poem I like.”

Ezra brushed dirt from his padded suit, lugging his case of raw ore behind him and out into the sunshine. 

“If I had not seen the contents of your pack, I would not think you a lover of prose,” he confessed.

“With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?” you quoted.

Ezra blinked in surprise, a genuine smile crossing his features; no less pleasing upon his face than the wry, Cheshire grin that would cross his lips when he antagonized you, but decidedly more welcome to your wellbeing. He really was, you thought, very handsome. You were admiring the way the streaking blonde splotch in his hair shone so starkly in the sun when contrasted with the glossy, inky pitch of the rest of his hair.

“Ah, Oscar Wilde. One of the great poets of Earth.” 

You nodded. 

“I had a volume of collected works in my father’s house,” you said. “Hidden beneath the loose floorboard in my room.”

“Why hide?” Ezra queried, the two of you starting off toward the campsite as the sun began to set. 

“My father loved his farm; little else occupied his mind. To him, anything that wasn’t productive was frivolous. It was just easier that way,” you confessed. 

“I must admit, Ezra said, “In the time I had spent pondering your truest nature, I had not truly considered the source nor the depths of your desire to be so … guarded. Truly, there is more to you than you present to the world.” 

You stopped at that, turning to face Ezra, admiring the glinting, way the sun shone behind his eyes, glinting golden hues swirling in the setting sun. _Golden hour, indeed._ The whites of his eyes reflective, like pure pressed fields of made of delicate blown glass.

"Y-you think of me?" You prodded gently, your breath catching.

Ezra sighed deeply, the swirling cotton-candy colors of the sunset slipping across the orbital glare of his helmet's visor. He glanced at his left hand, curling his fingers around nothing before letting them drum idly along his thigh.

“I would be a lying man if I told you I do not think of you. Though I am certainly not immune to the stinging accusation that comes with mistruth. But, there is no place for that here. Should you desire the truth, well then, in the spirit of truth, you occupy my every thought. And I am most regretful regarding my hasty misjudgment of your character.”

You blinked at Ezra, willing him to go on for once, reslishing in the warmth that swept through your body at Ezra’s confession, causing your fingertips to tingle.

“You are not the judgmental, hateful brute I believed you to be,” Ezra whispered. “And for my according mistreatment of you, I wholeheartedly apologize.”

You nodded, turning back toward the campsite and continuing your walk. 

“What changed your mind?” you queried.

A staticky breath escaped Ezra’s helmet, a rushing sigh. “I find myself back in the bar on the night of our first meeting; I am unable to stop watching you.” He kicked at a particularly long blade of grass. “And in my observations, I have noted that you are a most steadfast loyalist. You take your job seriously, and you do not aim to hurt needlessly. I saw the way you guided the floater away from our site. Gentle, you were. A dove. Where a harsher enforcer would have muscled him; shot him, perhaps. You are not needlessly violent by nature. Your burn is controlled. And I was ugly to you.” 

You were greeted with silence at the campsite; either everyone was in their respective tents napping, or had yet to return. 

Ezra deposited his ore in the cool, locked chamber on the pod before meeting you at the mouth of your shared tent. 

You were silent, contemplative. Arms crossed over your chest as you waited for Ezra. You opened the flap of the tent, beckoning him inside; sealing it behind you and waiting for the purifying process to finish before you removed your helmets. 

Your silence was unnerving to Ezra; had he not just poured his heart to you? He had often thought of his words as a balm; just as capable of healing as they were of eviscerating. But you were maddeningly silent, unsnapping, untethering, and unzipping yourself from the confines of your heavy suit. So Ezra mimicked your actions, and began to make himself comfortable, though truthfully, he had never felt less so. 

You placed your thrower along the wall, next to your aluminum staff, and your blaster at your bedside. 

Now in your threadbare tank and thin long john bottoms, you turned to watch Ezra finish stripping out of his suit, arms crossed over your chest. 

“So,” Ezra turned at your voice, greeted with your moonlike visage, glowing with the sweaty exertion of the day’s work, your eyes bright, and crossed arms pushing your breasts up in a pleasing way. He waited for you to continue.

“Are you sorry?” You asked. 

“Am I _sorry,_ ” Ezra repeated.

“Yeah,” you breathed, crossing the tent and invading Ezra’s space; so close, and yet he dared not touch you. “For being _so. mean. to me,”_ you jutted your lip in a pout. “Are you sorry?” 

“Suppose that I was,” Ezra clucked his tongue pityingly. 

“You would have to prove it to me,” you closed the gap between you and Ezra, trailing your finger from his bared clavicle down his sternum, stopping at the hem of his undershirt, gently gripping it in your fist. “How sorry are you, _Ez?_ How would you make it up to me?” 

Ezra had never felt so _giddy,_ pleased as punch at this turn of the tide. He stared down his proud, sloping nose at you, hoping his face did not betray his glee. He had to hand it to you, your eyes had never looked more innocent; your lips, never more inviting. But the words that dripped from your lips were dangerous, cloying and targeted. 

This was _your_ game.

And he would play, slavish knight to your regal King. 

“I …” his voice rumbled, “I would ravish you, lavish you with verbal honey. Bring your body to the pinnacle of ripping ecstasy. Make you _cry_ for me. My Venerian beauty. It is, after all, what you _deserve_.”

You could feel your knees weaken and your core tighten warmly at his words. You tightened your fisted grip in Ezra’s shirt, tugging him further into your orbit. 

“Is that so?” you whispered, tilting your head and bringing your lips ever closer to his.

"Yes, dove, my Venus. Allow me to treat you as the esteemed goddess you are," he brought his hand to your waist, dragging it down to roughly cup your rear, lifting you slightly. 

You let out a slightly-shocked exhaling coo. "Ever the gentleman," you half-heartedly, and goodnaturedly sneered. "But that word doesn't really apply, does it? You're no gentleman."

"I assure you, while I am quite capable of being every bit as polite as a situation calls for, I am no gentle man," his eyes gleamed wickedly. "But something tells me you do not _need_ gentle."

You were certain your thin leggings were soaked through by now. This kind of teasing had to be unlawful. They should toss Ezra into a Kamrean jail, throw away the key...

"We shouldn’t,” you sigh, “People might hear us. And you haven’t even bought me dinner. Proper decorum dictates that--"

Ezra cut you off with a mirthless snort.

"Proper decorum? My beautiful little bruiser, there is nothing _proper_ about you and I. And if you’re so concerned about others hearing, maybe you could be a good little girl and _keep it down_?” 

With that, Ezra closed the hairs’ breadth of space between the two of you, pressing his lips forcefully to yours. The kiss you had shared before was lilting, teasing; the gentle stroke of a paintbrush on a blank, trusting canvas. This … this was power, lightning ensconced in a bottle. 

Kissing Ezra was reckless. He met your lips over and over like a drowning man sucking in air; as his tongue swept into your mouth and met yours, he emitted a deep groan that zinged straight through your mouth, and down into your core. 

You couldn’t take it any longer. 

Your fists, still clenched in Ezra’s shirt, yanked upward, tearing the shirt over his head, his lips only just separating from yours long enough to dispense with the garment before he swooped back upon you. 

You dropped the shirt on the ground, bringing your hands to rest flatly on Ezra’s chest as he moved from your lips to the side of your neck, dragging his strong nose across your pulse point, following its path with pressing, sucking kisses. You sighed, tilting your head and losing yourself in the wave of adoration that rushed through you at Ezra’s reverent worship of the column of your throat. 

When he paused to catch his breath, you struck, dragging your hands up Ezra’s chest and neck, digging your nails in as you went, scraping up into Ezra’s hair where you gripped and _tugged_. Before the groan could properly leave his throat, you tilted forward, causing the two of you to gently topple onto his bunk. 

Hands still pressed in Ezra’s hair, with his hand still firmly cupping your bum, You positioned your legs on either side of Ezra’s thighs, straddling him, and began to roll your hips as you gently nipped at his jaw, alternating soft bites with kisses, sucking and kissing your way down his throat and onto his chest. 

You could feel Ezra hardening beneath you, his breath escaping him in sharp, rasping gasps. He began to bring his hips up to meet the roll of your own, hardness now fully pressing against your center. 

You sighed again, removing your lips from their domineering path down Ezra’s chest; You disentangled your hands from his hair, dragging them down his chest, nail catching across one of his nipples, causing him to gasp. 

“Y-you _wretched_ little thing, you,” He whispered, the reverent tone of his voice betraying his words. 

You only smiled at Ezra wanly, fluttering your lashes at him and not breaking eye contact as you slid down his legs, bringing your hands to rest at the top of his trousers; with a cheeky wink, you tugged them down, Ezra lifting his hips to assist you in your hunt. 

You looked down in vague shock and amusement -- Ezra wasn’t wearing anything underneath long johns. Instead, you were greeted with the sight of Ezra’s length, hard, flushed, and -- borderline intimidating-looking.

You scraped your nails down Ezra’s thighs as your eyes met his melted chocolate ones, pleased at the flush of his cheeks. 

“W-wretched,” he said again. “Your cruelty knows no bounds. And here I am … generous enough to relinquish control to you. And th-this is how you repay me.” 

“Ezra,” you leaned up his body once more, mouth meeting his in a rushed kiss, lips parting with a _smack._ You brought your hand up to grip and run teasingly along his cock. “Baby, you’re going to have to shut,” you pumped his length once, “the fuck. up.” You pumped his cock with each word. 

He groaned, the sound burning, liquid gold as it met your ears and stung its way through your veins. 

You dragged your lips down, down, down his chest, gently biting as you went, placing a kiss to each hipbone before bringing your mouth down, licking a flat, hard stripe up his length. You pressed your lips over his tip, and began to suck, taking in Ezra’s length bit by bobbing bit. 

A strangled moan left Ezra’s lips, causing you to bring your other hand up to slap over Ezra’s mouth -- perhaps a little _too_ harshly, soothing the sting by running your thumb over his lips while your mouth continued to take Ezra in, silken heat meeting silken heat. His hand brushed and fisted into your hair, stroking you as you continued. 

Ezra surprised you by sucking your thumb into his mouth, biting down lightly as you released Ezra’s throbbing cock from your mouth, choosing to lick him again and pump your hand up and down his length. 

Ezra relinquished his oral hold on your thumb, spewing a litany of whispered curses and praises at your attentions. 

“"You … you, dove, are the most sacred, the most magnanimous thing these wretched, d-destructive hands of mine have ever beheld. A miracle before mine unworthy eyes," his eyes closed. “Glowing heavens above, you are _sensational_.” 

You leaned up once more, licking into Ezra’s mouth, lips brushing against his like silken petals. 

Ezra’s eyes snapped open when you broke the kiss, a string of saliva between you, taking in the glowing mischief behind your eyes, your cheeks warm to his touch. 

With a yelp of surprise, you shrieked as Ezra struck, flipping you with his weight and wrapping his arm around your back. 

“Now who needs to be quiet? You magnificent little hypocrite,” Ezra’s eyes _burned_ with a frightening want. “I wasn’t lying before, little moon. I _think_ of you. Often. And I am _not_ a gentle man.” He dragged his hand down your chest and underneath the thin material of your leggings, warm palm cupping you as his fingers slipped past the useless, sopping material of your panties to run along your seam. 

You gasped. 

“You’re in my grasp now, peach. And I _take_ what I want.” 

Ezra’s kiss was full of punishing promise, his hand leaving your center to tear your leggings down and away from your legs. He gripped your knee, knocking one leg to the side, positioning himself between your now-spread legs. 

“Do you believe you have _earned_ my affection?” His nacreous eyes took in your panting, gasping form.”

“Y-you’re the one who’s supposed to be s-sorry,” you panted. 

Ezra’s smile turned feral, all teeth and menace. His eyes, once glittering and swirling now hardened, steely flints of ebony. 

“Do I not bear the countenance of a remorseful man?” He hissed. 

When you didn’t answer, he brought his punishing grip to your throat, squeezing gently, but firmly.

“I asked you a question, birdy,” he pressed, bringing his face to yours while he continued to squeeze your throat beneath your jaw. “If you believe me to be not penitent, allow me to remonstrate, allow me to worship. This is my riposte.” 

Ezra worked his way down your body, bringing himself between your legs, his eyes never leaving yours as he brought his mouth to your center, cursing and blessing you with teasing licks and soft kisses, not giving you nearly enough. 

You whined, palming your breasts through your tank, attempting to roll your hips to meet Ezra’s mouth. 

“This is my repentance, bird. Be good and _take it._ ” With that, Ezra latched his full lips over your own nether lips, and sucked. 

_Heavenly_ , he thought, withdrawing just enough to flatten and run his tongue over your seam, a prickle of pleasure trailing through him as he saw the way it made you writhe. The taste of you was like the first little nibble into the wedge of a fully-ripe orange, tart with a burst of sweetness. 

He enjoyed the burst of sweet, sticky juice that biting that first orange wedge so wrought. So too did you burst as he bared his teeth, Ezra eagerly slurping your wetness and gathering it on his tongue as though you were also a ripe valencia; daring to bloom and ripen in the harsh winter months. Unfurling before him at the behest of his fingers, not unlike peeling said orange.

Ezra focused his attention on the peeking bud beneath your petals, licking and sucking at your clit as he wriggled a long finger into your center, stroking you to the pace of his tongue. 

Your orgasm _slammed_ through you, unexpectedly and wretchedly blinding you as you slapped your hand over your mouth to keep quiet while you stutteringly rolled your hips through the aftershocks, Ezra slowly withdrawing his fingers -- when had he added a second one? 

He slinked his way up your body, bringing his hand back to your jaw, squeezing as he lewdly kissed you, all tongue, possession and saliva, allowing the mingling of your taste on his tongue to drip into your mouth. 

Ezra broke the kiss, his hand palming your ass once more as he lined his hips up with yours, guiding your thigh to wrap around his trim waist before _slamming_ his length into you, snapping his hips in a punishing pace. You had had no time to truly recover from the popping heat of your first orgasm.

Your skin felt like it was burning you alive, like curling paper in a kindling fire, as Ezra continued rolling his hips sinfully into yours. 

“Eh- Ez,” you panted, “Ezra, _please._ ” 

“Please what, little star? Hmmm?” He asked, almost mockingly as he gleefully basked in the warmth of your whining desperation. 

“P-please, I need to come again,” you gasped. “Oh, stars, Ezra, you f-feel… you feel ...” you trailed off as Ezra propped himself onto his knees, keeping pace as he leaned to bring his hand to your clit, stroking you. 

“O-only fair to warn you, bird,” Ezra breathed, the corded muscles in his neck straining as he continued to thrust into you. “I’m not sure I can be so gentle.”

You furrowed your brow as you felt another orgasm building, looking up at Ezra through glossy, starry eyes. Ezra’s thrusts turned snappish and sloppy, triggering your second tightening, gushing release. Ezra could swear he had never heard anything so beautiful as the whining, keening trill you released, all through a piss-poor attempt to silence yourself, it sounded _strangled_.

The noise, coupled with your core squeezing around Ezra’s length was enough to do him in; he snarled, dipping his face into your neck as he spilled himself forcefully inside of you, thrusting weakly through the aftermath. 

You slowly unwound your legs from his waist, relishing in the burning sensation rushing through your legs. 

Ezra sighed contentedly as you rested your head on his chest. 

“I forgive you,” you chimed softly. 

Ezra only laughed. 

\----

The dig finished a mere few cycles later, your crew packing up and making its way back to Central Khoriaxis, returning you to the bleak bay.

You and Ezra had not much discussed what would become of the two of you once your job was finished. Though you enjoyed your time together in your shared tent, the first time was no doubt magical. The second, third, and fourth no less so. But for a man so usually verbose, you found Ezra’s silence on the subject of what was to become of the two of you … troubling, to say the least. When you departed the pole, you and Ezra rode together in abutting seats, sitting in companionable silence in the pod. 

Once you reached the hangar, Cyrus offloaded the ore to his buyer and returned, distributing everyone’s cut. You took yours and smiled at his icy countenance weakly. He did not return the smile. But as you turned to leave, he gripped your arm, causing you to turn back to him. 

“If you need another job, here’s the code for my link. I could use you again.” 

You nodded, taking your leave and making your way after Ezra’s retreating figure. 

_Of course,_ he was heading to the cantina where the two of you had met. 

You took your seat across from him at a small table along the wall. 

“So,” you began. 

“So, what now?” Ezra asked. “That depends entirely on you, moonshine. While I have thoroughly enjoyed your company, I would not harbor any expectation, nor place said expectation on you that you should stay. The bird does not belong in a cage, after all,” He smiled at you, almost sadly. 

You had not thought that the insecurity you were feeling could possibly be shared by Ezra, but there it was. As plainly as he could ever speak it, anyway. 

You had known Ezra was a lover of literature, of prose. You had shared your etchings with him and enjoyed a few passing literary references while you patrolled the tunnels he harvested. You could only hope he would understand what you meant, then. 

“I should have gone through life half-awake, if only you’d had the decency to leave me alone,” you said. “But … perhaps we woke up another. I should like to think so, anyway,” you finished. 

Ezra’s face lit, like the glimmering wash of white snow in the moonlight. 

“E.M. Forster’s finest,” Ezra said, quietly. 

“I mean it, Ez,” you whispered. “I would not consider travelling in your company a cage.” 

“Well then,” Ezra smiled in smug satisfaction. “Shall we? I have a friend in Kamrea I think you would love to meet.” 

As you stood to make your leave -- there he was, Carson. Glaring at you and Ezra from a table by the door. Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum at his side. _Of course._

You rolled your eyes, nodding in their direction. Ezra got the gist; the two of you leaving the bar as soon as you’d come, Carson and his goons hot on your tail.

“Hey!” 

You turned to meet the shout.

“Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?” You asked. “Or was my right hook too subtle for you?” 

Carson snarled, “You and your little _floater_ boytoy are going to pay.” 

"Consider yourselves fortunate," Ezra postulated, glancing away from the intruders and down to his fingers, wiggling them and rotating his wrist, "that I do enjoy a good, layered intrigue. But I would dispense with the fallacies and get to the point expeditiously if I was you," he exhaled through his hawkish nose. "For, you see, my partner is even less patient than I, and exponentially swift with her cruel brand of justice." 

“Ez,” you turned to face him, palm on his arm. “Go ahead. I’ve got this,” you nodded. “I’ll catch up. Don’t worry.” 

You turned to face Carson as Ezra meandered across the bay, watching you from a safe distance. 

He watched as you and the goons exchanged a few heated words, ending with you launching yourselves at the scum, fists replete with brass flying, as Carson’s goons tried to hold your arms, tugging your sweater. 

You ripped away from them, knocking unpenitant blows, pushing Carson away from you with a final shove. They watched your retreat but made no move to follow as you threw one final, pointed finger punctuated with a final warning as you made to leave

As you crossed toward Ezra, he met you with open arms. 

"Hey," Ezra tugged you away by your arm, turning you from the fray. "What in Kevva's name possessed you?" 

He brought his hand up to your face, gently directing your face visage his, your burning eyes meeting his questioning ones, while you continued to have and snort in the aftermath of your little altercation. 

"H-he…" you began, the rage still boiling beneath your itching fingertips, heated blood rushing through you and roaring in your ears. You glanced one more fiery look over your shoulder to where your quarry was being tended to by his more level-headed friend. His nose was still pouring blood. Good.

Ezra snapped his fingers in your face, waspishly reminding you to return your gaze to his. 

Ezra's hooded eyes washed over you, taking in your hair, mussed from the altercation. The collar of your crewneck sweater was stretched and askew over your collarbones from the beast of a man's fisted tugging. Your knuckles, as well as the area around your eye, were sure to purple and bruise from where he had landed a hit or two, but you hardly acknowledged the pain or your scattered appearance, choosing instead to still dance on angry pins and needles like a spitting cat. 

Your eyes met his again as his calloused palm cupped your jaw.

"I asked a very reasonable question, little moon."

"He … he _insulted_ you."

Ezra chortled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, slinging his arm over your shoulder and guiding you to his rented room. 

“Chekhov’s indomitable muscle, indeed.” 

\---

You were set to leave for Kamrea the following day; you and Ezra spending the day before travel haphazardly packing your few belongings, finding welcome distraction in one another around bouts of packing.

Ezra lie in his thin sheet, watching as you fluttered around, packing a book into your rucksack. You rubbed your thumb reverently across the cover, a thought striking you, as Ezra murmured about your travel plans, more to himself than to you. 

"We've got time to kill. What do you say? Ez?" You turned to look over your shoulder and across the room to the space Ezra currently occupies, seated on your shared cot. You gently shake the book in your hand, a pleased smile on your face.

"Would you like to read with me?" you asked, gently.

You meet Ezra's glittering eyes. He offers you a half-tilt smile, tipping his head ever slightly back, exposing the column of his throat.

"A most affable and intriguing proposition, moonshine.” 

Eagerly, you cross the room, plopping yourself into Ezra's lap, where he was now sitting up in the cot. 

“What have you brought to me?” He asked before pressing a soft kiss into your neck. You closed your eyes, sighing. 

“I _n Cold Blood.”_

"Truman Capote? Ah, one of my favorites."

Ezra brushed his lips against yours, the kiss becoming heated as you dropped the book, twisting in Ezra’s lap to wind your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

“My ardent little beam, my sweet nectarine,” Ezra expressed between pressed kisses, “You promised me a story.” 

“ _Ez,”_ you whined. “You’ve already read it.” You made to kiss him again, but he stopped you with a finger to your lips and a chuckle.

“That may be true, peaches and cream, but I haven’t yet experienced it through you. Indulge me, and dictate on, little bird.” 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Winter Moon by Rae_Gar_Targaryen91](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28330989) by [HiJustBrowsingThanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiJustBrowsingThanks/pseuds/HiJustBrowsingThanks)




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